by Kelly, Diane
The guy hadn’t wanted the puppy as a companion. He’d only brought her home because, with those big paws, she was sure to become an enormous beast. She could protect his stash, provide a warning bark if the cops pulled to the curb. Hell, he hadn’t even bothered to name her, referring to her only as “dog,” “damn dog,” or “shithead” as the mood struck him.
One night, when he and his stoner buddies had been particularly drunk and high, he’d climbed onto her back after one of his idiot friends commented that she was as big as a horse. He’d been a skinny guy, but dogs weren’t built to carry weight on their backs. She’d crumpled beneath him, her spine feeling as if it had snapped in two. As she lay flattened on the ground he’d kicked her in the ribs, fracturing two of them. Of course they’d been left untreated. Hell, the jackass hadn’t even bothered to have her spayed or get her shots. It was a wonder she hadn’t died of parvovirus.
She’d wanted to bite the stoner, to rip the guy to shreds. But she knew he was mean enough and stupid enough and messed up enough to kill her if she dared. If she’d had a nice pair of horns like these bulls, though, she would’ve gone for it, gored the dumbass right through the stomach and tossed him out into the yard like the garbage he was.
Still, she’d exacted a subtle revenge. When he’d been passed out cold the following morning and one of his so-called friends snuck back into the house, she hadn’t made a peep. Thanks to Brigit’s silence, the intruder got away with untold pounds of marijuana and five hundred dollars in cash the stoner had hid under his mattress. If a dog could laugh, she would have then.
A few weeks later, in the dead of winter, he’d left her outside in the cold with no food or water. She’d managed to dig out of the backyard and was eventually rounded up by an animal control officer. She’d been slated to be euthanized at the city pound, escaping her fate only when a police officer came into the shelter looking for a dog with the potential to be a K-9 officer. Brigit had impressed the cop with her smarts and size and determination, so here she was, working as a cop, getting three square meals a day and overtime paid in belly rubs and chew toys.
Brigit continued to watch the action in the ring. After the bull threw the man off his back, the beast trotted toward the nearby exit, his head held high. Brigit barked in encouragement. Arf-arf! They might not be the same species, but any time an animal bested a human it was cause for celebration.
TWELVE
STALLING FOR TIME
Robin Hood
As expected, convincing her sisters to run interference for her had been a snap. She’d given them a sob story, too, delivering it while they sat in her Chevy Spark in the stock show parking lot.
The inexpensive car might not be much, but at least it wasn’t a hand-me-down. Sick of secondhand goods, she’d refused to buy a used car. Given her young age and less than stellar credit score, the cheap car had been the only new one she could qualify for. Chevy called the yellowish-beige color “Lemonade,” but to Robin Hood it looked more like the color of butterbeans. Regardless, it was all hers. She only wished it didn’t now smell like the Revlon Fire & Ice perfume her sisters seemed to bathe in. Robin Hood would never wear a scent sold at a drugstore. She bought her Tom Ford Black Orchid perfume at the cosmetics counter at Macy’s. Or at least she had when she’d still had a viable credit card.
“I’m pregnant,” she told her sisters, blinking her eyes repeatedly to fight back tears that weren’t coming. Like I’d ever let my twenty-five-dollar mascara run. “Evan, he wants me to … to…” She turned her head away, as if unable to let them see her grief. “He wants me to get rid of it!”
Crystal reached out and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “That asshole!”
Robin Hood turned back to her sisters and gulped back a sob that, like her tears, didn’t truly exist. “I don’t know how I’m going to afford the medical bills.”
Heather frowned. “Don’t you have health insurance through your job?”
“Yes,” she said. “But there’s a three-thousand-dollar deductible plus a hundred-dollar copay for every office visit.”
She hoped that sounded reasonable. Honestly she had no idea what her insurance policy covered. She was twenty-one years old and in perfect health. The last time she’d seen a doctor she’d been nineteen and suffering with a genital wart. She’d been unemployed and on county health insurance at the time. The doctor at the clinic had simply burned the thing off, warned her about the dangers of unprotected sex, and sent her on her way.
Her sisters exchanged glances.
“We’d offer to help you out,” Crystal said, “but we pooled the last of our money to get the trailer leveled. Our bedroom was a foot lower on the end. If it sank any further we’da fallen out of bed.”
Robin Hood eyed her two sisters, opening her lids wide in an expression of hope. “But you would help me? If you could?”
They exchanged glances again.
“Of course,” Crystal said. “You’re our sister.”
“Sure,” Heather agreed after a slight hesitation.
Robin Hood explained her plan. “So all you need to do is run a little interference if necessary. Got it?”
Crystal nodded once.
Heather, on the other hand, asked, “What if we get caught?”
“We won’t,” Robin Hood said, letting a tone of how-can-you-be-so-stupid? underscore her words. The fictional Robin Hood had never gotten this kind of shit from his Merry Men. “And even if the police catch me, they can’t charge you with anything. It isn’t a crime to use a public restroom.”
“Oh.” Heather’s face brightened and she sat up straighter. “Right.”
After Robin Hood traded her stilettos for sneakers—getaway shoes—they climbed from the car. She popped her trunk open and retrieved a pair of crutches she’d bought for three dollars at a yard sale. She held them out to Crystal. “Here you go.”
Crystal took them and slid them under her armpits. They were a little on the short side, but Robin Hood hadn’t thought to bring tools to adjust them. They’d have to do. Crystal hunched over and crooked one leg up behind her, feigning a sprained ankle. Robin Hood wasn’t as impressed with Crystal’s acting skills as she’d been with her own, but they would have to do.
The three bought tickets at the ticket booth and headed inside, making their way to the arena to watch the rodeo. Crystal and Heather seemed to enjoy the show, cheering on the calf ropers and bull riders. Robin Hood, on the other hand, was bored out of her skull. Stinky animals and dust and farmers were so not her thing. She was here for one thing and one thing only. To relieve a wealthy tourist of her cold, hard cash.
After enduring the events for an hour or so, she let out a long sigh. “Can we please get moving?” When she realized she’d sounded impatient and thus unsympathetic, she added in a whisper, “It’s just hard for me to keep sitting here. I keep thinking about the baby and all.”
Murmuring words of support that fell on deaf ears, her sisters followed her down the bleachers, out into the corridor, and down the hall to the ladies’ room. As they’d planned back in the car, her sisters positioned themselves at either end of the sinks, Heather washing her hands and Crystal fixing her hair. Robin Hood hovered near the stalls with her oversized Michael Kors tote. She looked down at her cell phone and pretended to be texting, when actually she was using the ruse to hide her face while secretly checking out the women who came in to use the facilities.
Several women came through, but most looked like young mothers or farm folk, not likely to have much cash in their wallets. Finally, in walked a woman with some potential. She was fiftyish, with blond hair styled poofy on top and short on the sides and back, with a longer piece lying stylishly on her cheek in front of each ear, like a blond female Elvis. The woman was dressed in hundred-dollar Miss Me jeans with rhinestones and embroidery on the back pockets. She wore hand-painted boots and carried one of those pricey tooled-leather western-style purses. She also wore the happy, loose expression of someone who’d had a few glasse
s of wine with dinner before heading to the rodeo.
The perfect victim.
As the woman slid into a stall on the end, Robin Hood slipped into the adjacent stall. She watched the floor. Once the embroidered jeans came down, she climbed up onto the toilet. Keeping her head as far back as she could, she glanced down into the stall. The woman’s face was down as she pulled paper from the roll. Good. She was paying no mind to her purse. All it took was a quick hand over the top of the stall and the bag was yanked from the hook. Spoils in hand, Robin Hood jumped down from the toilet to the floor.
“Hey!” the woman cried. “You took my purse!”
Oops. Looked like the woman hadn’t been quite as inattentive as Robin Hood had thought. She kicked at the toilet knob, hoping the flush would drown out the woman’s screams.
Flushhhhh.
“Give it back!” the woman cried. “Give me my purse!”
As the woman yanked up her pants in the stall next door, Robin Hood shoved the purse into her oversized tote, zipped the tote closed, and exited the stall without so much as a glance in her sisters’ direction. Five steps later she was out of the bathroom, merging with the bustling crowd, home free. It took everything in her not to throw a victorious fist in the air.
Robin Hood rises again.
THIRTEEN
BUCK-A-ROO
Megan
After sending the boys home with their parents, Brigit and I had returned to the arena.
When the bull-riding was over, the announcer jumped back on his mic. “Keep your seats, buckaroos! Up next will be our bareback riders. You won’t want to miss this classic rodeo event!”
I decided to leave the arena at that point. The dust had my eyes feeling gritty and made me sneeze. Besides, the way Brigit kept eyeing the bulls and drooling I feared that if I didn’t get her away from that arena she’d try to take one down singlehandedly. Or would that be singlepawedly?
As I led my partner into the outer hallway, Deputy McCutcheon strode by with a group of men. He’d ditched his uniform for jeans, chaps, and a burnt-orange western shirt over what appeared to be some type of padded chest protector. Like the other men around him, he now sported spurs and a straw cowboy hat. While these men looked every bit as tough and determined as the bull riders, by and large this group tended to be taller. I supposed having long legs would be a benefit when trying to remain on the back of a horse who was trying to throw you.
Clint spotted me and Brigit and turned our way, spinning to walk backward as he continued on. “You can’t leave now!” he called. “I’m riding in ten minutes.”
I glanced down at the schedule in my hand. Sure enough, his name was listed third among the bareback riders. Clinton McCutcheon, Azle, TX.
“He won’t be riding long!” hollered the man walking next to him. He gave Clint a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning back to me. “McCutcheon drew Tornado Loco. Toughest horse in the bunch.”
Clint raised his palms in a final invitation before turning back around to watch where he was going.
What is it with the men in my life? First Seth and his bombs and now Clint and his unbroken horses. I wasn’t sure if the two had a death wish or just an overabundance of testosterone. Or perhaps this said more about me than them. Was there something about me that scared off normal men, something that said only men with oversized cojones need apply? Either way, I wasn’t going to miss Clint’s ride.
Brigit and I returned to our place at the gate, pulling rank over a quintet of young female rodeo groupies wearing low-cut tops and jeans so tight it was a wonder they could bend over to put on their boots. “Step back, girls,” I said, though they were only a year or two younger than me. “Official police business here.”
Riiight. As if stalking a sexy cowboy could in any way be considered part of my duties.
The broadcaster announced the start of the bareback riding event, calling the first rider to the chute. The man slid his right hand into a leather glove, and rubbed it with some rosin from a bag. Ready now, he settled onto the back of the horse immobilized in the chute and slid his hand into the rigging.
The gate clanged open and released the horse, a dark brown stallion with a wild mane. The horse leaped to the left, then right, then bucked three times in quick succession. The rider spurred with perfection, marking to the horse’s shoulders with each jump. When the horse seemed to realize his tactics weren’t working, he combined a buck with a spin, sending the rider flying off to the side. The man impacted the ground like he’d been slam dunked.
A collective and sympathetic “Oooh!” rose from the crowd. We were all thinking the same thing. That had to hurt!
The horse bucked a couple more times for show, then seemed to realize it was a waste of energy since he’d already ditched the cowboy. While the clowns shooed the horse toward the exit, the rider stood, clutching his shoulder. His arm hung limply at his side. He released his arm just long enough to give a wave to the crowd before leaving the arena. Looked like the paramedics would be busy tonight. I only hoped Clint wouldn’t need their services.
As we watched, a young man joined the girls’ group next to me. He wore a powder-blue shirt with embroidered white roses along with a shiny silver belt buckle featuring a towering oil rig. Far be it from me to stereotype, but something told me he might be more into bulls than heifers.
The second rider’s performance was mediocre. He started off well enough, but after four seconds slid sideways on the horse and was thrown forward on a spin.
“Clint’s up now!” cried a black-haired girl in the group hanging near me.
The girls and guy pressed forward en masse, squishing themselves up against the gate next to me.
“There he is!” called another, pointing across the arena where Clint was heading toward the chute.
“That is one fine cowboy,” said another. “I wouldn’t mind giving him a ride. Except I hope he’d hang on for more than eight seconds!”
As the girls laughed, my hand reflexively found the baton at my waist. I supposed I had no right to feel jealous. Heck, Clint and I had only spoken for a few minutes yesterday and for a matter of seconds today. It’s not like the two of us were dating or anything like that. Still, the thought of them lusting after Clint made my blood simmer. I’d enjoyed his attention, maybe even needed it, and I didn’t want to share it with anyone else.
“Next up is local favorite Clint McCutcheon!” the announcer called with enthusiasm through the loudspeakers. “McCutcheon is a two-time winner of the Houston rodeo, a three-time winner at the rodeo in Checotah, Oklahoma, and winner of last year’s Oklahoma Buck-Off. Clint also placed second last year at the PRCA National Finals in Las Vegas, Nevada. Clint will be riding the notorious Tornado Loco, who’s thrown more riders than Nolan Ryan threw home runs. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s show Clint some love!”
The girls squealed and clapped and jumped up and down in their hand-painted boots, one even going so far as to put two fingers in her mouth and let out a whistle. Thweeeee! The rest of the crowd went wild, too, their applause roaring through the arena as many of them stood. Evidently Clint was a minor celebrity around these parts. Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure. Then again, the rodeo wasn’t my usual scene.
As Clint settled on the horse’s back, my heart went still, as if trapped in its own chute. Clint could end up unconscious or hurt, like the earlier riders. Then who would flirt with me, make me feel desirable and witty and interesting?
Clang!
The horse bolted from the enclosure, dashing forward only three steps before bucking so high and hard it was a wonder he didn’t flip over. Clint spurred over the horse’s shoulders, virtually standing in the air given the horse’s extreme angle. The horse bucked a second time with equal force, yet Clint hung on. When he failed to clear Clint with a third forceful buck, Tornado Loco lived up to his name, sending his body into a crazy leaping spin. How Clint was able to fight against the spinning force was a mystery, one that was solved not by Colonel Mus
tard in the conservatory but by Clint McCutcheon on the abdominal machine in the gym.
Rather than tire out, the horse only seemed to gain momentum as the seconds ticked by. Clint managed to stay on for the requisite eight seconds, defying both the odds and gravity. Finally, the horse effectuated a surprise sideways snap maneuver, bending nearly in half one way then the other to toss Clint. Amazingly, Clint landed on his feet, bouncing to absorb the impact. He stood, took off his hat for a quick bow, and trotted to the side, circling his hat over his head and pumping his fist in victory.
“Men want to be him,” the black-haired girl said dreamily, watching Clint, “and women want to be with him.”
“I don’t know,” their male friend said, tilting his head as he checked out the ass framed between Clint’s chaps, “I think I’d rather be with him, too.”
“Watch out for those spurs,” I said as I turned to go. I’d seen, and heard, more than enough. Seemed everyone wanted a piece of Clint. I only wondered whether there was enough of him to go around.
I wandered back outside to patrol. A half hour later, as Brigit and I circumnavigated the perimeter, loud chanting from the parking lot drew my attention. I stepped up to the chest-high fence to see what was going on.
A dozen people stood in the parking lot just outside the fence, carrying signs. Some of the signs were raised on sticks over their heads, others were scribbled on poster board and carried in their hands.
SPURN THE SPURS!
RODEOS: CRUELTY FOR A BUCK
REAL MEN RIDE BIKES.
THERE’S NO EXCUSE FOR ABUSE!
BUCK THE RODEO!
My eyes landed on two of the protestors, a curly-haired blonde and a thin man with a bushy gray beard. Sherry and Michael Lipsomb. I’d met the two not long ago at the Shoppes at Chisholm Trail, a mall in my usual beat, the place where the Tunabomber had planted his first bomb. The couple had been on site the day the bomb exploded, protesting the mall’s fur store. They’d initially been suspects in the bombing, but had later been cleared. Though firmly dedicated to their causes, the two were a pair of relatively harmless hippies.